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optimism."
    "Hey, it gives you that boyish charm. ... So you treated her four years ago?"
    "Ten. I saw her once four years ago. Follow-up."
    "Ah," he said. "Ten years is a long time."
    "It's a damned eon."
    Long pause. "You still sound . . . protective of her."
    "Just doing my job." Surprised at the anger in my voice. I avoided further discussion by thanking him for his time.
    He said, "The MP guy did agree to make some calls to hospitals."
    "Morgues too?" I said.
    "That too. Alex, I know you didn't want to hear about the girl's sheet, but in this case maybe it puts things in a more positive light—she's got a rationale for cutting out without explanation. Best thing to tell the mom is just wait. Nine times out often, the person shows up."
    "And when they don't, it's too late to do anything about it anyway."
    He didn't answer.
    "Sorry," I said. "You've done more than you had to."
    He laughed softly. "No, I had to."
    "Up for lunch sometime?" I said.
    "Sure, after I chip away at some of this ice."
    "Subarctic, huh?"
    "I wake up middle of the night with penguins pecking my ass."
    "What kinds of cases?"
    "Potpourri. Ten-year-old child murder, parents probably did it but no physical evidence. Twelve-year-old convenience store robbery-gone-bad, no witnesses, not even decent ballistics, 'cause the bad guys used a shotgun; drunk snuffed out in an alley eight years ago; and my personal favorite: old lady smothered in her bed back when Nixon was president. Should've gotten my degree in ancient history."
    "English. It's not a bad fit either."
    "How so?"
    "Everyone's got a story," I said.
    "Yeah, but once I'm listening to them, you can forget happy endings."
    5
    THE ROOMMATE'S covering for her. . .
    A roommate who lived the same life as Lauren? If so, no reason for her to talk to Jane. Or the police. Or anyone else.
    Jane Abbot claimed Lauren admired me. I found that hard to believe, but perhaps Lauren had mentioned me to the roommate and I could learn something.
    I called the 323 number Jane had given me for Lauren, got another male robot on the machine, hung up without leaving a message.
    I thought some more about the path Lauren's life had taken. Given the little I knew about her family life, I supposed there was no reason to be surprised. But I found myself succumbing to letdown anyway.
    Ten years ago. Two sessions.
    When her father had terminated, had I let it go too easily? I really didn't think so. Lyle Teague had never accepted the idea of therapy. Even if I'd managed to reach him by phone, there was no reason to believe he'd have changed his mind.
    No reason at all for me to feel I'd failed, and I told myself I felt comfortable with that. But as the afternoon grayed Lauren's disappearance continued to chew at me. Just after two P.M. I left the house, gunned the Seville down the glen to Sunset, and headed east, through Beverly Hills and the Strip, to the roller-coaster ramp that was the crest of La Cienega. Catching Third just past the Beverly Center, I picked up Sixth at Crescent Heights and cruised past the tar pits. Plaster mastodons reared, and groups of schoolkids gawked. They pull bones out of the pits daily. One of L.A.'s premier tourist spots is an infinite graveyard.
    Lauren's apartment on Hauser sat midway between Sixth and Wilshire, a putty-colored six-unit box old enough for fire escapes. I made my way up a chunky cement path to a glass door fronted by wrought-iron fettuccine. Through the glass: dim hallway and dark carpeting. A column of name slots and call buttons listed TEAGUE/SALANDER in apartment 4.
    I pressed the button, was surprised to be buzzed in immediately. The hallway smelled of beef stew and laundry detergent. The carpeting was an ancient wool—flamingo-colored leaf forms over mud brown, once pricey, now heeled and toed to the burlap. Mahogany doors had been restained streaky and lacquered too thickly. No music or conversation leaked from behind any of them. A flight of chipped terra-cotta steps at the